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| transition noun /tranˈziSHən/
transitions, plural 1. The process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another.
One time, a fellow expat told me, "The only time an expat is truly happy is when they are in the plane between here and there." Her point was that, living overseas. you will always feel torn between one place and another. On the plane, for that brief moment in between, you are in both worlds. In these years of living overseas, this has not been my truth. For me, this in-betweenness of being in both places yet in neither one place or the other is something I dread. The last few weeks before leaving are the absolute hardest of all my time overseas. Physically, I am in one place, but my thoughts, feelings, emotions are all in another. Even being aware of this, and purposely avoiding thoughts of home or of the fact that I am leaving soon, it is impossible to avoid finding myself in that netherland. The scattered bits of myself, all wandering in a limbo between here and there, only come back together when I arrive. Regardless of how things go, whether being home/being there meets my expectations, at least I am in a place that is real -- a singular place where I can be, there and only there. This time, I am only going to be home for a few months. Last time I went home, I was coming back to a new city, a new school, and living in my own house (instead of renting a room) for the first time since coming to India. This time, I will be returning to the same house, the same school, the same city, most of the same friends. This is hardly even a transition, as much as a "visit" home. I'll even be taking my work home with me, writing a few syntax papers, reading important journal articles that I haven't been able to finish yet, gathering the books that I will need for classes next year, changing my visa, and returning in a short 3 months. So why do I still feel like I am in transition, if it's not? I have realized: This transition isn't just that I am going away for three months, the transition is that I am going home. I am transitioning between my completely different worlds, dismantling and reassembling myself as I go from the world where I live, and do what I love to do, to the world which is who I am. But because this doesn't look like a transition, there is no closure. Yet, for me, I am finishing something -- my MA, my first two years in Delhi, another season in India. And though I have my plans, I am not entirely certain what I will be returning to. So the world around me continues while I am lost in between, neither here nor there, with no marker to state "This is where something ends and something new has begun." There is no graduation, no celebration, no good-bye farewells. Just finishing and going home. A week from today, I will be waking up in my bed in Missouri, sun shining through the window, dogs barking outside, Mom making coffee, Dad frying bacon. A week from today, all of me will be in one place, no longer scattered between here and there. A week from today, none of this will matter anymore. Then, I will laugh at my feeling sorry for myself, and surprise myself with how quickly I feel at home again. A week from now, I will be home. Now, to get from here to there ... | | |
| American English: (to the delivery guy) "Please call me to let me know when you'll arrive so I can be there." Means: "I have some work to do today. I want to miss as little as possible, so I will meet you when you arrive & I will leave as soon as you're finished to continue my important work." Indian English: "Please call me to let me know when you'll arrive so I can be there." Means: "If you call me and let me know when you think you might be arriving, I will continue with whatever work I have until such time as I feel good and ready to head to my house to meet you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- American English: "Ma'am, we will be at your house in 20 minutes." Means: "We will be at your house in 20 minutes." Indian English: "Ma'am, we will be at your house in 20 minutes." Indian English: "Ma'am, please start thinking about being at home because we might possibly be making a delivery today. Maybe." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- American English: "I'm on the way, I'll be there in 15 minutes." Means: "I am in the car, on the road, and should arrive in about 15 minutes." Indian English: "I'm on the way. I'll be there in 15 minutes." Means: "I'm thinking about leaving and I might possibly leave within the hour, maybe an hour and a half, plus any time taken for tea break or lunch. It will then take another half hour-ish to actually reach your place. But it should definitely (probably) be sometime today. Maybe." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- American English: "Where exactly do you live?" Means: "I'm not sure where this address is. Can you give me directions?" Indian English: "Where exactly is your address?" Means: "I have the address right in front of me. I'm actually just calling so that you know I'm actually on the way." OR: "I'm on the way, I have your address, but I can't read. Can you just tell me where it is?" If only I spoke Indian English! Then I might actually be able to figure out what time I'm actually supposed to head for home, instead of assuming 20 minutes actually means 20 minutes! You'd think after almost 5 years, I'd be better at this! | | |
| I just felt my first earthquake! At least, I'm pretty sure that's what happened (and most of my neighbors apparently think so, too.)
I was sitting at the computer just thinking it was time to go back to bed when I felt someone bumping my chair. Now, I live alone, so this was a little freaky. Anyone who has stayed at my house knows it echoes badly, so I am constantly thinking someone is walking through my house, closing doors, or even cooking in my kitchen when they're not. But I've never actually felt someone bumping into me! Then I noticed the desk door was bumping, too -- and my purse hanging on the door was swinging slightly, as if there was a slight breeze. Just as all of this registered, I heard my neighbors pouring out of their houses onto the balconies in the back alleyway. (I love that whenever there's commotion, everyone comes out to see what's going on. Imagine everyone running out into the street at home when the tornado sirens go off. Except it's 2 am.) Unfortunately, all the excited chatter was in Hindi, too garbled for me to catch. But, I also heard my other neighbors calling to each other up the stairwell, making sure everything was ok. Clearly: "Bhukamp hai?" Quickly I ran and grabbed my dictionary. Earthquake! I was right!
So not only did I finally feel my first earthquake (I've slept or driving through 2-3 without ever feeling them), but I also learned a new Hindi word! :D | | |
| I called the taxi for 5:30 am, and then immediately regretted it. At that time of day, it wouldn't take more than 20 minutes to get to the train station, and then what was I going to do for an hour while waiting for the train! Everyone knows you don't need to be more than 30 minutes early for a train, even less if it's not the starting station as the train will be inevitably late. But I can't quite seem to get my Dad out of my head, thus I always arrive way too early and find myself wondering why I did.(He, of course, would be flabbergasted that I would call 45 minutes early "way too early."  )
I was almost worried that the train station would be empty at 6 am -- I've been in India long enough to know better than that! The porters in their red button up shirts and loose pants, cloth wrapped around their heads, were already congregated eyeing the row of taxis & autos for someone's bags to carry. Indians were carrying suitcases and duffel bags, foreigners wandered in clusters, hiker's backpacks (large enough to carry the kitchen sink and a small moose) looming over their heads. Extended families made their way to the platforms with children, uncles, aunties, and tiffins all trailing along behind them.
Nizamuddin is unique from other train stations in that it has a very nice restaurant just outside the main entrance. A brightly lit glass wall reveals neat tan counters, red upholstered booths, and a long menu of Indian delicacies, North and South. Nearly 45 minutes before my train, and only 200 feet to walk to get to it, I decided to have breakfast. They even had uttapam, one of my favorites.
"It'll take 10 minutes, madame," the attendant said.
"OK," I said. "But my train leaves in 30, so be a little quick." Meanwhile, I went to get my coffee, finding the drink station and handing the boy my slip for coffee. On going, I asked an Indian guy to watch my bags for me. He flashed a huge grin and gave me the A-okay sign when I got back. My uttapam wasn't done, so I waited, sipping my coffee and watching the room fill up with foreigners and young Indian guys. Most of the families had brought food for the train, and women seldom travel alone. The guy who'd watched my bags was sitting opposite, and grinned hugely whenever he caught my eye. The only thing that caught my eye was his shoes, styled after black crocodile leather, the toes kept going and going as if the Aladdin style curl had given up and fell flat.
It had been 20 minutes since my food was supposed to be ready by the time I got through the crowd back to the counter. "Where is my uttapam?" I asked.
The waitors searcher frantically to verify that someone had indeed ordered uttapam, ignoring my question of, "Are you just now making it? How long will it take?" I spend five minutes wavering between waiting patiently and trying to ask again, "Exactly how long is this going to take?"
25 minutes since I ordered, and 17 minutes before my train actually departed, I gave up on the waiting patiently. "Tell me now! How much longer? No, don't turn around again. Answer the question."
"Uh ... five minutes madame."
"I can't wait five minutes! Give me the food or give me my money back!" Thankfully, the manager overheard and stepped in. "Her train leave in 15 minutes," he told the cashier. "Give her the money back."
I rushed through the train station, quickly finding the board at the entrance that told me which platform to go to. Of course, the next to last one, but at least Nizamuddin only has 7 platforms versus New Delhi's 16. The worst part was that I didn't know my seat number yet. My tickets had been wait listed (on the waiting list) and were confirmed, but I had to find out which seat had been given up. The listing of the cars and passengers' names is generally hung on a board mid-way along the platform. I found the board quickly enough, but wasn't able to get near enough to read the lists. A crowd of men stood in front of it (women don't usually travel alone, remember), and every time I stepped in closer someone else shoved in front of me. Finally, I gave up on trying to get close to the signs and decided to just find the 3 AC cars. At least if I were on the train, I could find my train.
10 minutes to go. I asked a porter: "Where is the 3AC car?" He pointed. "That way, madame. Way, way, way down there." Oh, great! But it only took me 3 minutes to scurry down the long line of the train, reminding myself that I could jump into any car I needed to if I ran out of time.
Thankfully, the first 3AC car that I reached was mine -- the passenger list for each car is also (supposed to be) posted alongside the doorway (convenient to both passengers and the stalker trying to find them  ). I heaved my bag up the foot high jump into the train, and found my seat number. The other passengers had already arrived and it took some pantomiming to tell them I needed some room to sit and a place for my bag. Their bags were already under the seats, on top the bunks, and lined up in the middle of the aisle. And I thought American's traveled with a lot of stuff! I still haven't figured out why it's always such a chore to get people to scoot over, lift their feet so you can put your bag away, etc. What did they expect to happen when the remaining passengers arrived? Or maybe they just hoped I'd go away. Who knows? But I got safely settled in, finally managed to convince the uncle to move his feet so I could slide my suitcase under the seat, and pulled out my kindle just in time for the train to start its way toward Bangalore.
(To be continued.) | | |
| From today's homework:
8. Here's an exchange from a James Bond move:
Marceau: You'd never kill me. You'd miss me.
Bond shoots her dead and says: I never miss.
Explain the joke, making reference to subcategorization frames.
Whoever said linguists don't have a sense of humor!?  | | |
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